by N. J. Mercer
“Baccharus!” screamed a distraught Johnny. He took a step towards his downed familiar; a lunge from the beast made him back off again. Johnny looked around in frustration for anything that could be used as a weapon, there was nothing. He watched the beast advance slowly, chomping at the air while the pistol that had dispatched his companion was now aimed at him again; a frown was almost visible on the twisted features of the demon-man as he sadistically considered whether to shoot or let his snarling familiar tear Johnny apart.
Johnny dug deep into his mind to create a psychic force of some description. He hoped for a blast of energy like the one he had managed to produce earlier in the motorhome; surely, another like that would save them all. He fought to focus his will, nothing happened. The last time he didn’t even have to think about it; on this desperate occasion, the more he concentrated on bringing forth his powers the harder it seemed. It wasn’t anger that gripped him now, only despair. He gazed hopelessly at the emotionless eye sockets of the figure in black, then at the gun barrel, and finally the slavering beast.
There was a volley of gunfire, a deafening sequence of small explosions that echoed throughout the entire hangar and made the eardrums ring. The demon in black jerked and twitched as high-velocity rounds hit home, tearing holes into the front of his long coat; he then stumbled backwards and hit the dirt. There was a barely perceptible pause before another volley was unleashed and met its mark again; this time it was the beast’s turn to be targeted. Its body, already injured by the axe, was now pierced with bullets. It rolled to one side, howling in agony. Johnny looked at his own torso in disbelief, expecting it to be bloody and perforated; he was fine, only his enemies had been struck in this timely and unexpected intervention.
Standing silhouetted against the headlights of the motorhome was a strangely proportioned figure with an abnormally large head, holding a raised pistol with both hands. Another off-world creature thought Johnny; it didn’t concern him unduly, he was just grateful there was somebody with a gun on his side. He squinted past the headlights at this being, unable to make out any details beyond the blackness of the silhouette. Johnny realised the figure did not give off any aura, his presence was psychically imperceptible, which was impossible – all living beings had a psychic signature, unless he was masking it somehow.
The two prone bodies of the Disciples twitched and moved and then clambered back onto their feet. They should have died from the gunshots. Johnny noted that there wasn’t any blood from the wounds inflicted on these foul beings, just a phosphorescent discharge; they were, he guessed, animated by dark, disordered energy and not normal physical processes. Observing this regrettable resistance to dying, Johnny was grateful that the two Disciples of Disorder had shifted the focus of their attention away from him. Hissing and snarling, they advanced instead towards the figure in the headlights. Johnny took the opportunity to escape from his corner and run to the aid of his two injured friends starting with Baccharus, and all the time he kept a careful eye on the battle.
The staggering demonic Disciple had managed to hold on to his pistol, which he raised to return fire; before he could get in even a single shot, the silhouette had quickly and smoothly changed the ammunition clip in the handle of his own weapon and, unmoved by the apparent invulnerability of his terrifying foes, fired again, unleashing further devastating rounds. Every bullet in the clip was emptied in quick succession and hit home. Johnny didn’t know much about guns, but even he could tell that whoever this new guy was, he could shoot. The two Disciples were sent reeling backwards with chunks of disintegrated flesh and clothing flying from them. They were both on the ground once again, their two bodies twitching as they lay there. To Johnny’s horror, they started to slowly rise again; mercifully, they did seem weaker than before.
The silhouette had already put his pistol away and was reaching into what looked like a bag at his feet. He produced a smooth, oval stone from it, a little smaller than a man’s fist, and without a moment’s hesitation he lobbed it with a gentle underarm movement. The spinning projectile landed on the ground a few feet from the Disciples, who were almost standing again. As soon as the stone touched the ground, it produced an explosive shockwave of psychoelectrical charge that shook the hangar. Johnny felt a rush of Presarium from the stone and the sudden release of power caused him to recoil. The beast and its demonic master, who were both much closer, bore the brunt of the blast and were thrown backwards, sprawling and sliding along the ground. The stone was a psychic weapon and so its effects were most profoundly felt by those with psychic ability. The stranger didn’t wait to gloat at the success of his attack; he followed it up instead with more gunfire, inflicting further wounds.
This time Johnny, who had been nursing Baccharus, didn’t just stand by and watch. He gently put his injured familiar back on the ground and used the power of his own will to send a beam of psychic energy at the enemy. It was nowhere near as powerful as the subconscious blast he had produced in the motorhome; it was, however, strong enough to keep his resilient foes at bay. Only now, after this sustained assault, did the Disciples opt to retreat. The demon-man raised himself on one elbow and created a flash of blinding energy with a wave of his free arm, dazzling Johnny and his new ally. By the time their eyes recovered, the only sign left of the two Disciples was a hole gouged through the corrugated iron wall on the opposite side of the old aircraft hangar. The silhouette ran across the hangar to the hole, and Johnny shifted his attention to Baccharus again. He felt pangs of sadness as he cleaned the bullet hole in the upper part of the familiar’s chest with a handkerchief; Baccharus grunted and groaned. The familiar had been a faithful companion for many years; until now, Johnny hadn’t fully realised how attached he had become to the belligerent little fellow. Using his coat as a blanket, he scooped him up.
Johnny turned as he heard booted footsteps approaching him. He could now see that what he had initially thought was another demon was actually a man in a motorcycle helmet – it was quite a relief. The helmet, which had given the impression of a misshapen head, was now held at his side, and a very human face looked on with grave concern.
“Is he alive?” asked the man in a strange, endearing accent, a mixture of Irish with inflections from a dozen different languages that he had been exposed to over time. Johnny nodded. “We’ve got to get him to a hospital,” the man urged.
“That won’t be necessary.”
“If he’s wounded we could—” started the stranger, pausing abruptly when he noticed little cherub wings poking out from the edge of Johnny’s blanketing coat twitching ever so slightly. “Oh, I see,” nodded the stranger, and there was some relief in his voice when he realised they weren’t actually dealing with a human child, “that’s a familiar, isn’t it?”
Johnny gave a single nod. He wasn’t entirely surprised by the man’s knowledge of the hidden psychic world; after all, here was someone who had calmly fought off two demons. “Thanks,” said Johnny with a smile, “your timing was impeccable.”
“Hey, just think of it as your lucky day. The summoned entity was going to blow your head off, wasn’t he? I mean, I don’t think you had any more tricks left,” said the stranger; it was more of a statement than a question.
“Summoned entity?” enquired Johnny.
“Yeah, that’s what I call the tall, ugly fellow in black. What do you know him as then? Demon? Bogeyman? In fact, I’ve been told this one has a name, Mr Kreb apparently. The creature with Mr Kreb is his familiar, it’s a Firehound. Either way, they’re not from around here, are they? They were brought to Earth from the worlds of Disorder – summoned here. ‘Summoned entities’, right?”
“Well, I can’t argue with that,” said Johnny.
“How long do you reckon your familiar will take to recover?”
“About twelve hours,” Johnny replied. Like the demons they had just confronted, the cherub did not rely on the normal internal physiology of earthly organisms to exist; it would take more than a gunshot wound through
the chest to end Baccharus. Johnny extended his right hand in greeting from beneath his familiar. He was still concerned that he was unable to sense any aura around the other man but that was no reason to be uncivil.
“My name’s Johnny … I believe you and I have a lot of talking to do.”
The other man clasped Johnny’s hand in a firm, cold grip. “We do indeed,” he said. His hard features softened with a smile that lasted less than a second. “My name’s Boyd Tennant.”
On hearing a loud groan, they both turned suddenly, only to see Sascha rub his injured head and sit up slowly as he regained consciousness.
Chapter 8
Johnny soon established that he and his new acquaintance had a common enemy in the Disciples of Disorder; for now, it was a good enough reason for them to be working together. He was eager to learn how Boyd had come to be involved in this particular case and in the wider esoteric world of psychic phenomena; it was a feeling, he suspected, that was strongly reciprocated. The world was a lonelier place after one had received knowledge of the alien and intangible forces that controlled the universe, after all, who was there to share this newfound cognisance with? Who would understand? To discover somebody with awareness of this secret was a rare and welcome event. As keen as he was to know Boyd’s story, they had both agreed that introductions and personal exchanges would take place after moving to a safer location; there was still a vicious and well-informed enemy somewhere out there.
Johnny laid Baccharus on one of the back seats in the motorhome, holding him in place with a belt around the middle. With Boyd, he helped Sascha, who still felt light-headed, into the front. There were relentless questions from Sascha about events that had taken place while he was unconscious. Johnny did his best to answer them as he took his place in the driver’s seat, and the motorhome rumbled into life again. Reversing carefully, he extracted the vehicle from the broken doorway. The engine rattled noisily and steam snaked its way upwards from under the bonnet. Once out of the hangar, Johnny stopped to assess the damage and had some unexpected help. It turned out that Boyd was quite an accomplished mechanic, and he gave the much abused vehicle a quick but thorough once-over. It had sustained some dented front panels which he pulled roughly back into shape before making some gross adjustments to the steering alignment. There also appeared to be a leakage of fluid from the engine which Boyd fixed by swapping one of the hoses with a similar item from a tractor in the hangar; all this took him no more than fifteen minutes.
Johnny reflected on the good fortune that had allowed them to end up in a place with so many tools, not to mention someone who knew how to use them. Boyd had certainly impressed him; he was turning out to be a very helpful person. In the hangar, Johnny found a large aluminium sheet which had been used for repairing some of the farm machinery; it was just what he needed. With Boyd, he wedged the sheet into position so that it covered the hole that had been blasted through the rear of the motorhome.
“How did they do that?” asked Boyd, referring to the hole.
“It wasn’t them,” replied Johnny.
“Eh?”
“I’ll explain afterwards.”
Sascha was feeling better, and despite Johnny advising otherwise, he insisted on going back into the hangar. He returned with the chainsaw and a hatchet, reasoning that until they found something better, these basic tools would have to suffice as weapons; he and Johnny didn’t carry anything as lethal as Boyd’s guns. Technically, this was stealing, and Johnny admonished his friend for it, only to be accused of hypocrisy as he had taken the aluminium sheet and engine components earlier. The pair eventually agreed that the end justified the means and the issue was dropped.
Johnny walked over to Boyd who was conducting a thorough examination of the damaged black car, which turned out to be an S-class Mercedes. He asked him if he had found anything useful; Boyd let him know that there were no clues present regarding the vehicle’s ownership, which was a little unnerving because a car that contained no trace of an owner was very rare. Usually there would be music, maybe an item of clothing, or old petrol receipts; here, there was nothing. Even the radio was tuned in to static with no stations in its memory; it suggested that humans were unlikely to have ever used this car. Boyd scribbled down the number plate details on a small pad he kept in the thigh pocket of his motorbike leathers and then opened the bonnet to scribble the chassis number. After seeing him at work, Johnny guessed that Boyd was a detective or a private investigator – as soon as they were out of here he would find out more about him and, hopefully, this case. For now, he stuck to the agreement: they would leave first and talk later. Almost everything was in place for them to move on. It was unlikely that the authorities would be turning up; the gunfire had taken place inside the hangar, which was set apart from the road, which was itself an isolated rural tract; they had, nevertheless, left a mystery and a mess for whoever the hangar belonged to.
“Let’s get out of here before any more Disciples of Disorder turn up,” urged Johnny, hauling himself into the motorhome; Sascha slid into the passenger seat. Before they all left the scene, there was something Boyd wanted to share with them. He walked over to Johnny’s open window.
“We mustn’t let Disorder find us again,” he said. Johnny agreed wholeheartedly, that much was obvious. Boyd continued, “They have encountered us already and will be familiar with our psychic signatures, which may lead them straight to us again. For me, this is not a big problem, I am psychically quite blunt. I still give off an aura like all living beings but not very much. I am not easily detectable; however, Johnny, you and your familiar and even Sascha may be found like this.”
It was a fair point, and Johnny nodded, wondering where all this was leading. “Baccharus or I can obscure all our auras to protect us from recognition – that’s what we were doing for a short time in the hangar,” Johnny suggested; Boyd was already shaking his head.
“Sitting in concentration to obscure auras all day and night would be far too difficult, especially as there is an easier way.”
Johnny was curious. From around his neck, Boyd removed the amber amulet with the black skull embedded in it.
“What is that?” asked Sascha.
“A Qrwshan amulet, it’s a holy artefact with special properties. You fellas take it for now. Stay roughly within a fifteen-metre radius of it and it will hide your aura from psychic detection.”
Johnny watched the dangling amulet, hypnotised; it seemed to glow. The carved runes on its surface appeared to move and dance as it slowly twirled on its chain.
“It’s beautiful,” whispered Sascha.
“That’s why I can’t sense you!” said Johnny, relieved. “You know what? I was getting quite concerned when I couldn’t pick up an aura from you; I wondered if you were even truly human. I just hadn’t said anything yet.”
“It’s the amulet that’s responsible,” said Boyd. “I think you’ll find me very human, Johnny. I hope the same applies to you.”
“Where did you get it?” asked Sascha, curiously.
“My teachers from the Order of the Earthly Eye gave it to me when I became an acolyte.”
The statement was met with baffled looks, “I’ll explain later.”
“Yes, let’s get going; explanations later, just like we agreed,” said Johnny, taking the offered amulet from Boyd.
“So where were you heading?” Boyd asked.
“Just north, we’re kind of working things out as we go along,” Johnny replied, grinning.
Boyd shrugged. “North it is then, back to Scotland where it all started.”
“Scotland, is it?” asked Johnny, who had not guessed that their ultimate destination was likely to be so far away.
“If you wish to find the Disciples of Disorder, it will be in the Highlands.”
“That’s a pretty big area, don’t you have any more information?” asked Johnny.
“Afraid not, those two in the hangar were my only solid leads and now they’ve disappeared.” ‘The Hig
hlands’ was about as specific as Boyd could be regarding the location of the lair of the Disciples.
“Fine, Scotland it is. We’ll keep pushing north until we’re too tired to go on; when that happens, let’s hope we’re well away from here. We’ll think of a way to narrow the search later.”
“Sounds like a plan. As soon as we reach safety, not only should we introduce ourselves properly as agreed, but also take the chance to compare notes regarding this case.” said Boyd.
“Indeed,” agreed Johnny. “I suppose you already have a ride then?” he added, gesturing to the sturdy-looking motorbike with the large panniers slung on either side. “If you don’t want to freeze your bollocks off then you’re welcome to hitch a lift with us instead,” he added cheekily.
“Travel in that heap of shit? You must be joking!” responded Boyd; they both laughed. It was decided that Boyd would follow, simply because the motorhome would struggle to keep up with the motorbike.
Johnny and company were on the road again, heading north. This time they were alongside a man with a gun, something they found quite reassuring in many ways and disconcerting in others. The pursuit and resulting confrontation with Mr Kreb had set them back about two hours.
Sascha stared at the reflection of bike and rider following them in the wing mirrors. “We really don’t know who he is yet, do we?”
“No,” replied Johnny without taking his eyes off the road.
“Do you trust him?”
“Yep.”